The Wooing

In the mornings I slip out of our darkened bedroom and into the kitchen. I start the water boiling for our french press coffee and pack the big kids' school lunches. I fill the dog and cat bowls, and putter about as the older members of our family get ready for their days.

When they leave for school and work I have a few precious minutes to sit with the animals. I stroke their fur and think about what I will do that day to make YH love me--just a little bit.

I have never worked so hard to win another person's love. Ever.

Just as with romantic love, I take care in my appearance. Are my clothes soft enough for him to press his cheek against if he needs comforting? I slather myself with scented lotion--the same kind we put on YH's dry skin--so that he will associate my smell with the pre-bedtime massage that he likes so much. I make delicious meals for him--paying attention to his ever changing food preferences and making sure to select his favorite utensils.

He is often waiting for me when I go to collect him from his warm bed each day. He sits upright in his bed, kicking his feet. I open the french doors to his "room" and he greets me with an enthusiastic "Good morning Mama!"

Most days he lets me crawl into bed next to him for a cuddle. We lay there with our foreheads pressed together and make lists of the people we will see that day.

"Mom! Owen, mom? Oz, mom? Mom! Baba. Nana. Mom! Mom! Kye. Jacob?"

That he allows us these moments of closeness is testament to the fact that the wooing is working. In our first few months together he was all business. And all busy-ness. Wake-up time meant leap out of bed and dive right into play time. He *liked* me ok then, but mostly I was a means to his ends. He wanted yogurt, I was the yogurt lady. His diaper needed changing, I was the diaper lady.

 Hugs and physical affection were on his terms. Yes--I will sit on your lap lady, but only facing outward. I will hold my little body stiff when you draw me in close for a hug. I will put my forearm against your chest, so that we aren't really hugging. I will let you carry me when I am tired but I will lean my torso away from you as your carry me on your hip. I will grasp your sweater in my tight fist instead of wrapping my arms around you. I will not allow you to hold me in a prone cradle position. No. I will not willingly make eye contact as you rock me.

We went slowly with discipline, recognizing that most of his tantrums were due to the tremendous upheaval in his wee life. His burgeoning language skills have cut down on many of the angry and frustrated outbursts. Instead of time-outs we do "time-ins"--a small window of time where YH can sit on a step with me by his side and work on calming his body/mind to the point where we can talk about the unwanted behavior/his frustrations.

I always end the time-in with a hug and an "I love you".

Last week something amazing happened.
YH started to lose it. He couldn't make a particular toy car do what he wanted it to do. He started banging it against the table and making louder and louder noises. His face was turning red and his brow was furrowed. I felt a major meltdown on the horizon and moved closer to him to help get him through it.

But before I could say anything he dropped the car and turned to me with a teary face.
"Mom, hug. Hug please mom?"

I pulled him in close to me and he melted against me. His head lolled heavily against my shoulder and our breaths fell in sync. I rubbed circles on his back and buried my nose in his spiky cowlick.

"Mom? Hey mom. Mom, Sunshine?"

He asked me to sing "You are my Sunshine" to him. I sing this to him before bed each night, changing the words each time to reflect something that I love about him.

"You are my sunshine, my wonderful sunshine. I love you so much, my little YH-ie. I love your cute nose, I love your stinky toes. You are so funny, and so so smart. I love your big heart, I love your dancing. YH-ie, I'm so glad I get to be your mama today and forever."

And so on. He never responds when I do this at bedtime; I had no idea if he listened to it at all or if he was patiently waiting for me to finish and leave his room.

But this time, in his moment of distress, he *asked* for his special song. He *asked* for me to hold him to help him feel better.

When he was ready to go back to playing I smoothed the hair off his face and said "I love you little man."

And he looked me right in the eye and said "I love you Mama."

The wooing is working, I think.

The dog days are over

Here are some things you should know about me:
When I exercise, I turn bright red--pretty much immediately.
I also sweat, a lot. Even if it is cold outside.

I stomp everywhere I go.
In the ridiculous dance class that I attend I never float across the floor. I awkwardly jerk my way through the songs, dripping sweat from my ruddy cheeks.
You would think I'm a 7 foot tall lumberjack based on the echo of my footfalls, but I'm lying when I tell you I'm 5'3" (5'2.5", so what???)

Any exercise related to building core strength automatically makes me want to puke. When we do hip openers in yoga, I cry. Every time.

Nobody has ever looked at me and thought : "Wow, there goes an athlete."

Least of all *me*.

And yet.
Over the last two years, I've come to recognize how necessary exercise is to my well-being.
My mental well-being as much as my physical well-being.

For a long time roller derby was my sport of choice. In retrospect, I think I enjoyed the community and social aspects more so than the actual sport. I tried to get back into it after a year-long hiatus but quickly learned that my community had dispersed. The new skaters were really driven and I'm positive they are lovely women--but I couldn't make it work for me. The sport that used to build me up left me feeling flat.

 And so I walked Ruthie all over town. Miles and miles--every day while the big kids were at school. While I waited to for YH to join us. While I tried to figure out who this new, work-in-the-home version of "me" was. I walked the dog and I looked around and I got lost in the doubts that filled my head.

My legs were tired at the end of our walks, but my heart was heavy.
I was lonely.
I missed my work friends, my roller derby friends.
My old life, and my old support systems.
Somehow they had all disappeared.
(the "somehow" had a lot to do with my retreating from the world during my darkest times; turns out when you are hiding from the world, life goes on for everyone else)

When YH joined us, and school started, and pneumonia hit, all of the "free time" I spent wandering through the streets suddenly disappeared.

And I started to go a little crazy.
A little unhappy in my skin, disconnected from my limbs, get-me-out-and-moving kind of crazy.

The first step was to join a gym that I had heard a lot of my fellow former derby friends talk about. The thought of attending a group aerobic hip-hop dance class seemed just absurd enough to rock my world. I am sooooo not coordinated, but I *am* an enthusiastic dancer with a secret love for young-person music.

I take my place in the back row two times per week and I leap and spin and fake my way through all kinds of fancy footwork. I feel silly and I laugh at myself, and I have the BEST TIME.
It's awesome.

A few weeks ago I added a once-per-week bootcamp led by one of my favorite people in the world.

As an aside: Have I told you that a large number of my friends became personal trainers when they stopped playing roller derby? Do you know how intimidating it is to to go out to dinner/the movies/coffee with a pack of women who look like they stepped off the cover of a fitness magazine? When you're wearing increasingly stretchy pants? It's not fun.

BUT. One of my newly-minted-personal trainer friends manages to be all inspiration and motivation, with very little intimidation. I love her for that, and I think she is the *perfect* personal trainer. I want to work harder for her; for ME.

And slowly, my confidence in myself has come back. I am finding ways to fill the post-derby community/exercise void. I am learning to believe in my own strength again.

Recently, I found a new piece of the puzzle.

A friend encouraged me to apply for a half-marathon challenge.
And as it turns out, my application was selected to be the sponsored athlete to train for the race and receive a TON of support and perks.

(see: http://zoomarun.com/2012/12/halfmarathonchallengeathletestexas/)

And y'all?
I am SO EXCITED.

(and scared. I'm pretty scared, too).

But I can do this.

Before yesterday, a 5K was the longest distance I've ever run.

Yesterday I ran 4.2 miles.
On Friday I'm going to run 5 miles.

And then 6.
And then 8.
And so on, up to 13.1 miles.

I'm going to turn bright red and I'm going to sweat like crazy the whole way through.
And that's ok with me.

I *am* an athlete. I'm a short, slow, clumsy, stompy athlete.
And I'm AWESOME.

I'm sorry.

Recently we were at a park. A lovely park, with an enclosed playground in a neighborhood populated by many of our school friends. My three were running around and climbing everything in sight--engaged in elaborate games with their friends.

I stood off to the side, chatting with Sean and with our grown-up friends.
We were a happy pride of children and parents, celebrating life in the wake of a national tragedy.
Some of us were a little weepy as we watched our children's six year old forms and thought of the equally tiny bodies in Connecticut that lost their lives earlier this week.

(some of us are weepy again just typing that)

In the middle of the playscape perched a boy in a cheery red turtleneck sweater. He sat on a four-wheeled scooter type platform, and rolled back and forth across a bridge. YH clambered up the rungs near the boy and began to move past him. The boy thought YH was trying to take his scooter and he exclaimed in a loud and flat voice "I'm not sharing my scooter with anyone--not even you."

There was something about his tone and his word choice that triggered the alarms of our pack of children and big sister Miss A immediately confronted the boy.

"You can't talk to my little brother that way. He wasn't even trying to take your scooter."

And as she spoke her friends formed a tight circle around her, and the boy.

I saw the boy's mother watching the scene unfold from a nearby bench. I walked up to her and said, in a light-hearted voice "Are they ganging up on your son?"

She was calmly watching the interaction--which continued in rapid back and forth between the boy and Miss A. The boy's mother turned to me and said, "The thing is, he's on the autism spectrum so he doesn't always understand what other kids are trying to tell him. Especially about his tone, or how to make friends, or if they're inviting him to play."

At this point I heard Miss A raise her voice a notch and try to reinforce the finer points of her argument, her defense of her littlest brother.

"Oh," I said to the mother, "I understand. Would you like me intervene? Get my kids to back off?"

"No," she said."This kind of thing can be good for him--he might learn from it..."

She sat with straight posture, watching her son unravel the mystery of his peers.
Her eyes were bright with concentration, her shoulders set with resolve.

Eventually our kids began to splinter off, to leave the scene of the conflict.
The boy in the red sweater sat on his scooter and rolled back and forth.

His mom got up and walked to him; she spoke soflty in his ear and he responded loudly.

"I DID NOT DO THAT."

"WHEN PAPA GETS HOME I AM TALKING TO HIM ABOUT THIS."

"I WASN'T EVEN TALKING TO THAT BOY."

"I DON'T UNDERSTAND."

***                       ***

In the car on the way home we talked about how some people's brains work differently from other people's brains. How making friends and understanding social cues comes easily to some people, but is very hard for others. We talked about how for most people, a person's words are only a tiny piece of what he/she is saying. His/her body posture and inflection add to the words and can change the meaning of the words.

Miss A got it. I knew she would.

The exchange stayed with me all night. I turned it over and over in my mind, making it shiny with worry.

I wish I had said something to the boy's mother.
I wish I had told her that we were also raising a child who is not neurotypical; that our son could face similar challenges.
I wish I had let her know that I saw her son as just a kid. A kid with some challenges, but not a bad kid or a mean kid or a kid I pitied.

Especially in light of the news out of Connecticut, that the person who committed an awful crime was on the spectrum; especially because of the potential fall-out from that information.

In defense of the elf.

Our elf hangs out with Willie Nelson, doesn't yours?

 Last night after a particularly long day, I settled in on the sofa with my laptop and a dog curled at my side. I was ready to end the day with bad tv and some social networking. And as I persued facebookery I discovered that our family was at the center of not one, not two, but three separate posts bemoaning a certain holiday "tradition".

Uh-oh.

The "tradition", of course, is the nightly antics of our elf, Happy Sam. Antics which amaze and delight my kids and which pepper their playground conversations.

Pinterest is awash in ideas of what to do with your Elf on a Shelf should you wish to engage. With the rise of pinterest and the ever-escalating adorability of elven tricks therein, there comes a number of articles/blog posts/status updates shaming those of us who participate in the ruse.

This article, for example.

(click above for link)

And friends: I get it.
I totally, totally do.

I get that the concept of an elf spying on your kids can be creepy and not in keeping with child-centered parenting. I get that the original Elf on a Shelf contributes to the further commercializtion of the holiday season. I *know* that when some kids have elves that get into mischief it can make the kids without elves, or with more sedentary elves, feel bad.

I know that this a practice that can seem forced; that can seem worthy of derision and scorn.

But here's the thing: My kids have had a rough year. They have had to deal with a lot of very grown-up, very real issues. Addiction. Cancer. Surgery. Change in economic circumstances. Leaving friends behind in order to feel challenged and engaged at school. Starting at a new school where you don't know anybody. Adding a new sibling to the family, one who has lifelong special needs and who doesn't always *want* to be part of the family.

To be frank, a whole lot of this year sucked. It was painful. I would give anything to spare my kids the really, really rough stuff. I would.

And so now, if I have the chance to delight them with some suspended reality? Yes. Yes a million times.

If it makes them happy to discover that a stuffed elf has decorated the Christmas tree with their underwear, I'm going to do it.

***                     ***

Last year at this time we were all in a funk. We were demoralized by the seemingly never-ending adoption process. The big kids caught wind of some friends' elves hijinks and repeated the stories to us in reverent tones. I asked the kids to draw a picture of what *their* elf might look like. Miss A's was named "Sam" and Sweet Bub's was named "Happy".

The next day the big kids woke up to a plush elf sitting on the dining room table, bearing a letter of introduction from Santa.

His name is Happy Sam and he is not so much a punitive elf (no tattling for Happy Sam) as he is a merry-making elf. He stays with us for the month of December and plays little tricks and jokes every night right up to Christmas Eve. Then he leaves us until the following year when he returns on December 1.

Yeah, some nights Sean and I are really freakin' tired. Yeah, it is work to do this and yeah, it's wholly unnecessary.

But before you roll your eyes at the lot of us who do this please remember that for some of us *manufacturing* joy for our kids is our effort to tip the scales for them. To provide counterbalance to the gross grown-up issues clouding their childhood and to let them, and us, believe in a little elf magic.

Does it really take away from your joy if for three weeks my kids gleefully recount Happy Sam's antics at lunch? If they talk about it with a smile because it's easier than talking about how hard it was to see their little brother in pain after his surgery? Or how stressed over money mom and dad are? Or how some their very favorite people suffer from illness?

It is not my intention to make things harder for you. I'm only doing my best to make things *better* for my kids.

I hope you understand.

Forever.

Tomorrow at 1:30pm we will file into a court room in San Antonio. We will wait for our names to be called, and then we will tromp in our official finery to the judge's bench. We will listen, and answer when asked questions. We will do our best not to fidget or scratch ourselves or otherwise behave inappropriately.

We will leave that room legally and permanently bound to one another as a family.
*Everything* will change in the court room and *nothing* will change in that court room.

YH will enter the room as a Korean citizen; he will leave as an American citizen.
YH will enter with the names chosen by his firstmother (including her family name); he will leave with those names still intact, plus two others.
YH will enter as a ward of our adoption agency; he will leave as our dependent.
YH will enter as an only child; he will leave as the brother of two incredibly proud older siblings.

I will enter the room as the mother of two, and leave it as the mother of three.
Of course I have been a mother of three for close to two years now--it was in early December 2010 that YH's tiny face first etched itself on my heart.

 Over the last six months my feelings for this child have grown in depth and complexity. Loving him is work--the most meaningful, incredible work I have ever done. This is not to say that he is hard to love; anyone who has seen him smile falls a little bit in love with YH. Rather, providing the love that he deserves has challenged me to work harder at parenting than I ever have before.

Prior to taking custody the "work" was a largely solitary, academic pursuit. I bathed in the theoretical. I read parenting books, books on prenatal alcohol exposure, books on toddler adoption. I joined every forum and yahoo group I could find. It was my intention to stuff my brain with so much information it couldn't help but trickle down to my heart.

And then.
Then a real live little boy was placed in my lap.
A beautiful little boy, with a crooked grin and a lumpy head.
A beautiful little boy with myopia and enormous feet.
A beautiful little boy whose laughter is nothing like the rage-filled tantrums I had prepared for.
A beautiful little boy who resembles none of the worst case scenarios in my books.

And I was lost.

What do I do with this perfectly imperfect boy?
How do I meet his needs?
Why does he run to me and hug me tightly? Why does he pinch my cheeks and honk my nose? Why does he say "Mama I love you"? 
When will the grief and rage come?

The marvel of YH's character is that *despite* the incredibly crappy hand that he has been dealt, he approaches each new situation with unbridled enthusiasm. He finds a friend wherever he goes. Every new food is an opportunity to discover something delicious.

"Mmmmm! MOM! Mmmmm!"
(and then he offers me a bite, so I can experience his joy too)

He does not hold a grudge. He shares toys willingly. He appreciates the beauty of a tiny baby and a friendly dog. Every flower petal is a thing of wonder and a large cactus will make him stop in his tracks and shout "WHOA!"

YH makes me want to be a better person.

So tomorrow afternoon in court I am going to recommit to being the best I can be for my family--my whole family. In truth this proceeding will simply change YH's legal status--but I choose instead to view it as my opportunity to make a promise to my husband, my big kids, and my littlest love.

 I am going to appreciate how each one of my children brings something different to our whole: Miss A's athleticism, leadership and sharp intellect; Sweet Bubs gift for comedy, his sensitive heart and his gentle nature; and now YH with his joy for the tiny details in life, with his belly laugh that makes us all giggle, with his unbridled hugs for those he loves.

I am humbled to parent these children, to do right by them.

No thank you.

We're on the other side.
We're past the endless weeping, and the pain with each step YH takes.

The seemingly endless course of antibiotics is done.
The bottle of pain killer sits undisturbed for most of the day.

YH is back to running and playing with his brother and sister.
He is sleeping through the night again.
He is eating lots and lots of food again.

And it is SO GOOD to see my baby feeling better.
There is nothing like a health crisis to cement the notion that this child is of my heart, if not my blood.
The degree to which his whimpering cut into my soul--unimaginable.

This baby is wholeheartedly his firstmother's child--I will never deny this fact, or prevent their relationship--but my lands, he is in my heart. I love him fiercely and seeing him suffer was awful.

 This morning we had our second-to-last post-operative appointment.

YH has quickly figured out that the children's hospital is not his favorite place; he drags his feet and kicks at the ground as we approach the building. We park illegally in a neighboring strip mall parking lot so as to avoid the garage fees. He tries to redirect me to the Starbucks.

"Mom! Mom, cookie. Mom, coffee. Coffee mom?"

We plod on, undeterred.

In the office waiting room he is warily optimistic. Maybe today we'll just play with the toys and then leave! Maybe if I look extra cute "reading" 'Mujer' magazine she'll let us leave.
(Nope, sorry bubs.)

He protests mightily at the weigh in. I *always* have to hold him as we stand on the scale together. Then I hold him (sobbing) at arm's reach as the nurse weighs me separately.

In the exam room he whines for a few minutes and then begins to zoom his toy car all over the spinning chairs. He opens every cabinet and presses every visible button. He is still YH, after all.

When the nurse practitioner walks in he tries to hide behind me.
She preps the exam table and sets out her tools for his scheduled catheter removal.
He becomes ever more still, trying to disappear.
She invites YH to climb up on the table but he is no fool.

"No thank you" he says and he burrows deeper into my shoulder.

I lift him up and lay him down on the table. There is a white towel spread beneath his abdomen.

"No THANK you" he says again, slightly louder this time.
The nurse practitioner begins to remove his diaper. 

"No thank you. No thank you" again and again, delivered in a voice clouded by tears.

My poor boy--so polite even in his distress.

The catheter comes out with no problems and we skip on our way out of the building.

Hooray!

We are looking forward to baths, to playgrounds, to preschool--to all of life.
We are not taking it for granted any more.

The post I wanted to write

The post I wanted to write went something like this:

"Thank you all for your loving wishes on my last post. On the big day YH cheerfully put on his hospital gown, held the anesthesiologist's hand and waved good-bye to us happily as he walked down the hall to the operating room. His surgery went without a hitch, and he is now up and running as if nothing happened!"

Sounds great right???

Sadly, the reality is not so great.

YH did not put on his hospital gown willingly. He screamed and cried out for me as the anesthesiologist took him away, and I wanted to die on the spot.

YH's surgery *did* go well--and for that I am SO thankful.

 But his recovery is very, very painful. And he is crying most of the time that he is awake, despite being on multiple pain control medications. There is a reason that most kids who undergo similar procedures do so at 6 mos of age; with YH's heightened awareness of his body, and of his bodily functions, the pain is more present for him than it might be for a younger child.

When he moves he is reminded of the pain, and all that he wants to do is sit in my lap and cry on my shoulder. He leans his full weight against me, tries to meld into me, and sobs. I rub his back and make "wuss wuss" noises to him. Tell him he is brave, tell him he is strong. Try to convince him to eat something, anything.

I try to enjoy the sweetness of his body pressed against mine. Try not to be overwhelmed by his sadness. Try not to let him see how much his pain is hurting me too.

In addition to the near-constant crying, YH has had a resurgence of anxiety behaviors. Things like bouncing in his seat or while standing. Rocking back and forth while sitting alone on the sofa. Talking and/or humming constantly, and using repetitive phrases.

These are all behaviors that had faded over the last few months as his need to self-soothe lessened.

Now they are back.
Now they are, once again, the only means for him to control his environment. To try and outrun, outsmart, and outdistance the pain.

It sucks.

We have been in contact with our pediatric urologist and all is progressing normally. We are all doing our best to manage YH's pain and make him more comfortable. As his swelling decreases over the next 48 hours we anticipate big improvements for him. And while his pain is still near-constant, the intensity seems to be waning.

I am hopeful.